They steamed down the dark tunnel for a few minutes—then they rolled unexpectedly out into an enormous train station full of soft gray diffuse light, with a lofty ceiling of glass and wrought iron. A big clickety sign showed the names of many distant places.

They passed another train, waiting at a platform—not a full train, just an engine and a tender. A boy a little older than Kate sat in the cab, and when he saw her he waved shyly and rang his bell.

Kate did the same.

“So—we’re not the only ones?” she asked Uncle Herbert.

“There are others. Not many, not yet. But you’re not alone.”

A minute later the train burst out into the open air, and they were running fast through a twilight landscape. Trees and cars and lighted houses streamed past. It was a long time since she’d seen them—she and Tom had spent a lot of time in some very remote places. Now they were coming back to civilization.

Tom took the controls and brought the Silver Arrow chuffing and chugging up to full speed. Kate was feeling recovered enough to start thinking about everything that had happened to her and about what was coming next.

Apparently, Uncle Herbert was thinking about the same things.

“You’ve had to do some hard things on this trip,” he said. “Both of you. You worked hard. You learned new things. You made mistakes and you owned up to them. You were uncomfortable and disappointed and discouraged and scared, but you never felt sorry for yourself and you never gave up. Those are some of the hardest things a person can ever do.”

“I guess.” Kate felt embarrassed at all the praise. “I mean, they’re not harder than, I don’t know, winning a marathon or writing a symphony or whatever.”

“But that’s how people get to do all that stuff, Kate. Anybody who’s ever done something really important got there by doing the things you’ve learned to do. And if you just keep doing them, you’ll accomplish amazing things too. Things you never would’ve dreamed you could do.”

“Hey, how do you know all this?” Tom said. “Mom says you’re the laziest man she’s ever met.”

“That doesn’t mean I don’t know what I’m talking about,” Uncle Herbert said, and that melancholy look crossed his face again. “Just more the theory than the practice. I was a conductor once, too. I just wasn’t a very good one.”

He took off his hat and showed it to them. In little letters stitched on the brim it said The Twilight Star.

“So that was your train,” Kate said softly. “We found it. It’s still there.”

Uncle Herbert nodded.